


Colour Palettes

by HighVelocity



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:08:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3868147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighVelocity/pseuds/HighVelocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots in time. Our Lady Inquisitor muses upon the significance of colour and the significance of flowers. So does the good Commander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Significance of Colour

**Author's Note:**

> Deliberate vague!Inquisitor with a hefty dose of formality.

Red and gold.

Red, and gold.

It was his personal palette. The rich colours were neatly offset by the dark brown leathers that made up the rest of Ser Rutherford's gear, and the bright gleam of his breastplate. It was a contrast to the cool silver and icy blues of her own armour, only slightly warmed by the cream-coloured leather that held it all together. If he was barely-checked fire, she was snow and ice whenever she ranged alongside him, striding the battlements or the grounds of Skyhold. Trevelyan was aware of the effect it had; they were diametrically opposed in so many ways, not the least of which being his Templar origins, and she a mage.

No matter that he was now Commander and ex-Templar, and she the Inquisitor and risen to the challenge and rank of Knight-Enchanter. It was a fabulous romance for the troops, and Trevelyan only slightly grudgingly allowed it, leaning on the Nightingale and Lady Montilyet to spin the story to their advantage as they saw fit.

Still... she paused in some consideration, fingering a length of velvet in a rich, clear red. Ser Rutherford had indeed lately taken to wearing an accent of blue about his person - little more than a small token pinned to one side of the massive fur ruff he sported, in the shape of a spray of forget-me-not. Tiny and blue, the colour true and bright. Steadfastness, faithfulness, remembrance... enduring love?

She smiled, beginning to fasten the velvet about her waist, pinning a tiny poppy into the knot. The sash was just as much ornamentation as it had a practical use; she'd often hung items from it, used it as makeshift tourniquets, used it to hold freshly picked herbage, and even once as a stand-in for a missing noseband from her horse's tack.

A tiny golden poppy, one of her few precious remaining ornaments. Poppy for peace, for restful slumber. And for death, for death walked with her often, and boldly laid its hands upon her shoulders in hot bloody reminders of what it was rightfully owed. But as she recalled, the poppy in some tales held the promise of resurrection after death.

Appropriate enough. Twice she'd walked into death's embrace, and twice she'd walked out again.

The Inquisitor smiled, adjusting her gear. Surely this would amuse, and send fresh whispers scuttling along the vine. Nightingale would adore it, perhaps; and the good Lady Ambassador delightfully scandalised, hard at work on how to best capitalise upon it.

Ser Rutherford, though.

She looked forward to taking note of the expression on his face when he saw the red, red sash with its golden poppy.


	2. The Language Of Flowers

Commander Cullen Rutherford did not have a terribly good poker face, but what he did have was an extremely good 'command' face. It was a stiff one, leaving his expression set and ferocious, with a rigid military bearing inscribed into every square inch of the man.

Such was the expression he bore right now, having noted the blatant pop of red-and-gold upon the Inquisitor's gear as she strode to the War Room. He only paused for the briefest second in the middle of his conversation with Leliana and Josephine, but by the sudden glint in Leliana's eyes, he knew she'd caught it, earmarked it, and quietly catalogued it for later.

Damnation.

Josephine exclaimed prettily as the Inquisitor greeted them with a formal bow of her head, unable to break herself of the habit despite all they'd been through. They'd long ago dropped formal appellations, only using them in public. Behind closed doors, it was all things of 'Josie, dear' and 'come, 'Liana' and 'hush, Cullen, just look pretty.' The pair of them oohed and aahed over the velvet sash and the little golden pin, turning their talk to fashion for a moment.

He did not find that he minded the interruption. It allowed him a moment's grace to recompose himself.

Lady Trevelyan had always favoured pale colours that reminded one of ice - cold silvers, chilly blues, and pale cream colours that barely warmed the overall look of her armour. It was a stark contrast against her skin and the dark hue of her hair. Cullen often suspected it was chosen for dramatic impact, the same as Madame De Fer.

But unlike Madame De Fer, whose colour choices seemed picked only to reinforce the perfection of her skin, her personality of glacial steel, and her penchant for ice magics, the Inquisitor's choice seemed more - significant, in a way that made him wonder about himself, and if he was reading more into it than he really should be.

He knew that Lady Trevelyan had a definite preference for green. He knew that she always chose darker shades for her wardrobe. He knew this because they'd spent many a long hour simply talking as she slowly recovered from her ordeal at Haven, keeping her awake to ensure she would not be lost to some hitherto unnoticed head injury. It was a gruesome task, and they'd both stopped being entirely coherent by the end of the time, descending into muffled whispers and childish laughter as the Herald's stories became ever wilder.

He knew that she'd only started wearing blue a little after they'd reached Skyhold, and were beginning to rebuild. Cullen was mostly sure that it was most likely to be coincidence, but the timing, oh, the timing.

He'd chanced to make a comment about diametrical opposites one night, as they spoke together. It was one of Lady Trevelyan's little habits to stop by his office or invite him to her own to talk, the way she so often did with her advisors and her inner circle. Cullen remembered exactly what they'd spoken of as they studied the sharp, sparkling quality of the stars that were visible from her windows; it was a slow, halting conversation by fire- and candle-light, drawing out his past and hers.

She'd asked him, quietly, about his feelings _now_ on her being a mage.

Cullen had taken his time over the answer. How he felt for her, what he thought of her - how was he to say that he'd begun to wonder if there could be more? How could he explain that it was, above all, her choices at Haven, the look on her face at Haven that had him beginning to fall, and fall hard?

There had been such a cold quality to her angular features as she gripped her staff all the harder and marched out into the night to _die_ , contrasting with her fiery determination. His heart sank, then, not just because they stood to lose the only chance they had of stopping a dire situation, but also for the woman who was ready to sell her life so dearly.

She'd shown herself to be a soldier through and through.

A day or two after that little conversation, she'd begun to wear blue. Leliana murmured something about wearing the ice caves of Haven on her frame.

There was a part of Cullen Stanton Rutherford that was an inveterate romantic, filled with desperate last stands, headlong charges for glory or death, forlorn hopes and triumph against all odds. It'd been this very part of him that responded so strongly to her that night.

"It is a very wonderful accent, is it not?"

Cullen stiffened in lieu of jumping, as Leliana's quiet voice broke into his thoughts. "Accent?" he echoed blankly.

"Our Inquisitor's little ornamentation today, of course." She smiled, one eye all but hidden behind her hood. That same eye seemed to flick over his gear, alighting on the spray of forget-me-not perched on his ruff, a simple piece of silver and pale blue enamel. "It's very striking."

"Oh, you mean her sash." Cullen ducked his head as Josephine and the Inquisitor giggled.

Maker's breath.

"Yes, her sash. Very nice little ornament. Such a lovely red. And the tiny little poppy. Almost a fitting counterpart for a forget-me-not, don't you think?"

"I - er, yes. It's - very nice," he finished lamely, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. The spray of forget-me-not seemed heavy on his fur ruff. He wore it for the names of the dead and as a reminder that he could've lost so much more. "Very, hmm, appropriate."

Leliana almost seemed to laugh, leaning into his space for the briefest little shoulder-check, before moving away. "Inquisitor, Lady Ambassador," she started, laughter clear in her voice. The meeting had begun.

Leliana strode forward to throw open the door, Josephine in tow, board and parchment and quill at the ready. The Inquisitor stood for a moment longer, making a minute adjustment to the bold slash of colour, before she, too, followed them.

It truly was pretty. The rich red colour was a distinct break in pattern that drew the eye, and if he squinted, he could almost swear it was the same shade as the accents on his fur mantle. Maybe.

As she drew up to him, Cullen smiled, inclining his head to her in greeting. "My lady," was all he said, sweeping a hand before them to usher her into the room ahead of him. The Inquisitor bobbed her head back in acknowledgement, her smile the sweetest thing. The poppy glinted in the sun as she moved past, sending an odd little frisson down Cullen's back as he stepped into the room behind her and pulled the door shut.

... What was it they said about poppies, again?

Peaceful slumber? Or was it death?


	3. Red Velvet

The Lady Inquisitor had a habit of stopping by his office on her daily rounds, twice - in the morning, and in the evening. It had begun at Haven, and it hadn't changed at Skyhold, even though Cullen realised at some point it was hardly the most efficient route to take when one wished to check in with one's circle of friends and advisors. It was a little later that he realised she did it because she'd wanted to see _him_ , first and last, and _there_ was a thought fit to bring the blood to his face in a hot flush.

Cullen shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck as he pushed away the small pile of reports, a growing headache gnawing at his temples. It would keep, and judging by the bold tap on the door, the Inquisitor was on the last leg of her evening round.

"Come," he called out, straightening as he rose from his chair. "Ah, Inquisitor."

"Commander," she replied, head inclined to him in greeting. A faint smile hovered about her mouth. Tonight, he noticed as he ushered her in, she was dressed in full armour - blue and silver, gilded at the edges by candlelight.

"I presume you will be riding out again, soon?" he queried. His eyes landed on the bold red sash, lifting a brow a little at the gold poppy pin that secured the knot. It surprised him a little, each time he saw it, and that surprise was always tinged with sadness.

When he lifted his eyes to hers again, there was a rueful smile that told him she'd noticed. Cullen stepped around the desk, then, and... stopped. He felt a little awkward, looking down at her.

"Indeed. We will be needed in the Emprise Du Lion, once more. Seems something has gone wrong. Red lyrium," she said, and his face darkened a fraction.

"Be safe," was all he could manage, reaching out for her hands. She smiled up at him, a much warmer expression.

"For you, Ser Rutherford? Always," she teased, stepping into his space and squeezing his fingers between hers. "But thank you. It is... tough, being there. Promise me you would not go unless you absolutely had to? The song of the lyrium is - awful, disjointed. It is hard to bear and leaves none unaffected."

"You know I can promise nothing," he murmured, dropping his forehead to nudge at her temple, ever so gently. "I go where duty calls."

"And I understand," she breathed out, head lifting to his, nuzzling back. Metal chinked as she swayed forward, arms looping around his waist. "But this is from me to you, _Cullen_ ," she said, and his breath caught in his throat. "If you can - _stay away from the red lyrium_."

"And you expect me to be happy about you exposing yourself to it?" he retorted, nuzzling down the side of her face, breathing in the light perfume of her hair, the scent of her skin. How warm she was.

"No... I don't. But I - would not cherish the thought of it corrupting you."

The confession was little more than a soft murmur, yet it hit him like a solid punch to his gut. Cullen growled, winding his own arms around her smaller frame, crushing her to him in a hug. "Maker turn his gaze upon you, woman." He shook his head, dropping to a knee with his hands on her hips, the hold intimate, as she shuddered above him. "Then take this benediction with you," he whispered, gathering the soft velvet of the sash in his hands. Damn that red velvet. Damn the fact that it was the colour he'd chosen for himself, and a colour she'd picked in some silent signal to him. Damn the golden poppy in its knot, chilling him with a story that always lurked at the edges of his memory, yet never fully emerging into the light.

Cullen brought the cloth to his lips with a little prayer to keep her safe, pressing soft kisses into it. "And come back to me. And always, come back to _me_."

Her fingers tunnelled into his hair, and he heard her breath hitch. "I will return to you, Cullen. Always."

From his knees, he looked up at her, blue and silver and red and gold, shaking just as he shook, a mortal woman elevated by the masses. The Herald of Andraste, she'd been titled. How far along Andraste's path would she have to walk? Would she eventually burn just the same, trapped and betrayed?

_Oh, Maker, if you ever knew us, if you love us still; Maker, turn your gaze back upon us. Turn your gaze upon her, at least. Protect her, I beg of you._

_Protect her._


	4. Blue Enamel

She kept her promise. She returned to him, time after time after time. She rode out to the Exalted Plains, to the Hinterlands, to the Storm Coasts and into the Western Approach, coming back each time exhausted and smudged and sometimes bloody and torn, but always triumphant.

She led from the frontlines and pulled them all in her wake, while he led two paces to her rear and to her right, at the head of a combined force; the strong arm of the Inquisition, the trained body at the ready, wielding sword and shield for her, their Herald. And all of them were hitched to the bright burning star and the hope of her Mark, the key in her hand; the wild running mare of House Trevelyan, from the Free Marches, surging to the front in the race they were all running against Corypheus and the threat of total annihilation.

Each time she came back, she saw him first and last; each time, he could not help but drop to a knee, giving up silent thanks to the Maker for seeing her one more time safe in his embrace. She would always curl her fingers into his hair, somewhat startled, the gentle tug urging him up again - the Commander, the Lion of Ferelden on his knees for her, wearing her colours as she wore his. Her breath would touch his skin as lightly as her lips as she pressed kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, fingertips leaving their mark on the polished enamel of his forget-me-not as she drew him to her, a living flame in his arms.

She came back, and she always came back, until the day she fell at Adamant, ripped through the Fade with so many in tow.

Cullen _knew_ she had gone. Some kind of sense that had been attuned to her and her particular brand of magic had been bereft, reaching out for her signal and finding only empty air. He didn't even know it had been there until it was gone.

He had felt like the breath had been ripped from his lungs when a scout brought him the news, only minutes before the reports came flooding in. _This cannot be forever_ , he thought dimly, while Leliana pored over the reports with him. _This cannot last. She will return. She **must**_.

In the back of his mind there was a running list of names that stood for the dead and all that had been lost. On his fur mantle, the blue of the forget-me-not winked in the dull light.

Cullen despaired at the thought of adding yet one more name to the memory of the flower.

\---

The Inquisitor returned.

Lady Trevelyan, however, only returned in part. Like as not, she had indeed left something behind in the Fade, even if she'd taken back all that was rightfully hers.

"What _did_ you find in the Fade?" they asked.

"The truth," she responded simply. "Truth and fear."

The truth was she was little more than a simple mortal woman in the wrong place at the wrong(right?) time, with a key in her hand that she should not have. The truth was that there had been no holy spirit behind her, only another mortal woman who should never have been subjected to such horrors, a mortal woman who deserved so much better, who should've had the chance to use what little time she had remaining in her life to see the foundations of her work laid down into solid ground.

The truth was an agony that had shaken her to her core; knowing that she truly was a mistake, an accident, a misstep in a game played for empty thrones and desperation, a burning desire to have the world as it once was.

As for the fear?

The fear was the fear of failure itself, knowing that she was a keystone for those who would stand against the ruin of the world. The fear was never being able to return. The fear was for those she had left behind and for those that had accidentally been pulled into the Fade with her.

The fear was for Cullen, Cullen who had been drawn to her as she to him, in the exact manner of opposites inevitably being attracted to each other. It was the memory of the benedictions he laid on the sash she wore for him and for herself, the promise he extracted from her, the knowledge that he walked on the thin edge of ruin with each waking breath. It was the sparkle of light off the blue enamel of the spray of forget-me-not he had worn one day and had never stopped wearing since, the colour the exact same shade of blue that graced her battle armour, rimmed by silver.

Who was to say who had started wearing what and when? She wore hers to remember Haven, dropping the rich colours of earth and growing greenstuff for the icy blues and silvers of the skies of the Frostback mountains, symbolic to her of freedom and second chances that she sometimes wasn't sure she entirely deserved. Cullen Rutherford wore his to remember the names of the dead, to remind him of steadfastness in duty, and of the love that was to be found in life, of the joy that could be got in simply _living_. He had been through so much and still held his head high.

Her fear was that she would be the nail in his coffin when she should've been his support, as he had been hers since Haven's fall. It had been fear that drove her on, sliding its way into a bullish determination as she took the bit between her teeth once more and pressed forward, ever forward.

_I must return to him._

_I **must**._

\---

It was a full week before Cullen heard the tapping at his door, late in the evening.

"Come," he called out, rising from his desk as the door was pushed open. He half-expected a scout, and was only mildly surprised to see the Inquisitor.

There was red on her all the time, now; in the sash that rode low around her hips, or a ribbon, or a flower pinned into her auburn hair. She had been blooded many, many times over.

"Commander," she said, head bowed in greeting, shutting the door behind her. Before he could stop himself, he had marched around his desk to crush her to his chest in a tight hug.

"You came back," he murmured just a little brokenly against the soft perfume of her hair, while her breath hitched in her throat and her arms came round his waist, holding him just as tightly.

"I did," she managed, nuzzling at his throat. He felt the fanning of her breath against his skin, and the wet touch of tears that she could not let fall until she was safe. "Oh, Maker's breath. I'm back, Cullen. I'm _back_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each time I think this is done, a wild new chapter appears. 
> 
> I mean, if there is a badge that says 'official DA trash,' I wants that.


	5. Draw Your Swords

"Cullen," she said against his skin, and her voice was thin, whisper-soft and reedy. His heart seemed to stop in his chest, broken out of a pleasant half-dream. Sun and a cool breeze, warm on his face, his side. A slim body, moulded to his frame, arm over his ribs.

He felt it. It was no dream. 

Awareness returned slowly to him as he struggled awake, recognising _something_ about the quality of her voice.

"Inquisitor."

Cullen grunted, bit the inside of his cheek. Oh, the effort it took to sit up. The world spun around him, tasting like dull magic and blood and loss. There were leaden weights trapping his limbs, and pain was a chorus dancing in every joint and muscle he possessed, and then some. He blinked the rust out of his vision and managed to get to his knees, turning as he did so, reaching out for -

"Inquisi - Oh, Maker's Grace, _no_ ," he choked out. "My lady, oh, my lady."

_Blessed Maker, I beg of you, do not let her name adorn the flowers. I beg of you!_

Even as he sent up his plea, Cullen felt unaccountably lost; as though the logical part of his mind knew his cry would go unanswered. He had seen more than his fair share of battle wounds, and hers -

Without help, immediate help, hers would be fatal.

The tough armour that she wore had been split from hip to sternum, chainmail and metal scales scattered around them like so many bright coins, exposing skin and bone. She lay panting, an animal in distress, bright eyes disturbingly clear as she stared up at the sky. Blood foamed at the corners of her lips, pooled underneath her, dripped off leather like the result of a child's angry gestures.

"No, oh no. Oh, my lady." Cullen scrambled to her, clutching his side through the sudden stabbing pain. He grabbed for her hand as her eyes tracked to his. "My love. _Please_."

He needed a healer. Her hand was limp in his. Where were the healers? Agony was a throb of pain in his side, his lungs, his very heart. Cullen searched the field, trying to pierce the smokescreen that hung over them, dulling his senses. If he strained his ears, he could just hear the hoarse shouts of soldiers engaged in combat. "You need help, you - I'm going for the healers, love," he rasped. "Please, be safe - "

"Cullen," she said again, eyes searching his face. Her jaw worked, as though she had more to say, but could not find the words or the strength to do so. Instead, he watched her eyes, gloved fingers gripped between his as though he could push his strength into her, by the force of his will and the firmness of his grip alone. A silent conversation took place; her face held agony and a plea, turned up to him. _Release me_ , she seemed to say. _I cannot, not any longer_ and _do not waste time on me_ and _relief_.

Pain and anguish, a denial. Try as he might, Cullen could offer no other reply. He, who had fought so hard for and against love, in the name of duty and honour; who had yearned for this, for so long, who had found a place where he belonged in the most unlikely of places, and with the most unlikely of partners - Cullen's inherent stubbornness surge to the fore, and he shook his head, negating her silent plea. After all, did not the Lion of Ferelden have strength enough for her, as well as himself?  _I could never - please, do not leave me. I do not wish to be alone._

Whatever it was she read in his expression, then, seemed to ease her - the strain around her bright eyes relaxed, and she gave him the barest of nods. "Be safe."

Lady Trevelyan's whispered words echoed his, and Cullen managed a smile. "If you have the strength for a barrier spell, do it," he urged, pressing a dagger of his own into her hand.

_Just in case._

And though his affinity for magic had been dulled, he still felt the whisper of her spell sliding into place as he stumbled away. Blood pattered around his feet, but Cullen managed a smile. More sounds of battle filtered through the thick, heavy air. If they were this far back - yes, perhaps the chances of meeting the healers would be greater, this far behind the lines.

_Yes_ , he thought again, staggering on. The broken haft of a spear ripped from the ground became a crutch, and Cullen screwed up his eyes against the swimming colours of the bright sky.

_Our names shall not be adorned by funereal wreaths. I swear this._

_\---_

"How far out?"

"Nigh on half a mile, Knight-Captain."

"And is he - will the Commander pull through?"

The healer's dark head inclined gracefully, belying the shimmer of worry in her eyes. "With luck, Knight-Captain. The external injuries were nothing compared to the internal injuries. And in his attempt to seek aid, he - inadvertently -  worsened some of them."

"And our Inquisitor?"

The half-beat of silence before she replied told Knight-Captain Rylen all he truly needed to know, and he exhaled slowly. "Thank you for your report," he murmured, turning to leave. 


	6. If My Will Caves In, I'll Be In The Same Boat As You

  
"She lies asleep and dreaming. Mired in memory and sunlight and the taste of young summer on her tongue. Sweet, warm,  _happy_."

Cullen's mouth twitched as the healer aided him to the chair set by her side. Carefully, so carefully, keeping his gaze averted from Cole, but acknowledging the spirit with a nod. The healer fussed over him, but only minimally - he had insisted. She had others to tend to, after all.

"Red, red, red. Apples and fruit, wine and drink, the sparkling look of Orlesian jellied sweets in sunlight. Red and gold and red. Warm life under her hands, gold flowing between her fingertips. Soft."

Grunting as he relaxed into the chair, Cullen gave his thanks to the healer, who bustled away, picking up a tray of bloodied dressings as she went, leaving them in peace. Cole hovered by the foot of her bed.

"She loves." The hat's brim shifted enough for Cullen to see the line of Cole's jaw, set and grim, yet the twist of his mouth was oddly hopeful. He didn't need to ask to know it was Cole's subtle workings that had let him remain by his lady's side, broken as they both - as they  _all_  - were. He'd come to in the dim, bleary space of some hitherto unknown apartment within Skyhold, and had been subsequently told that these were the private rooms of the infirmary, meant for intensive care.

Ordinarily, he would've sought to climb straight out of bed and back to work, dressings and all, damn the nattering of the healers -if not for the fact that Trevelyan lay right there, right beside him, in another bed. She was unconscious, and damaged - had been horribly damaged - but alive. Her skin was warm at her neck though her face was pale, paler than it should have been; her heart beat strong, and Cullen had scarcely been able to keep from dropping to his knees there and then to give up his thanks to the Maker, to Andraste, to each and every god that had seen fit to watch over her. His hand had remained hovering above her belly, over the long rip that he still saw in his mind's eye, afraid to touch, fingers gripping the sheets instead.

Someone had whispered, a quick, flickering murmur about lights in the dark, drawing each other on and out, a red-gold sunrise warm welcoming them out of the blue-edged night.

The healers' words had broken over his ears in a dull wash of sound as they gave their report, pushed him back to bed. He dimly caught something about children, but that would not make sense till much later, and even then he resolutely tamped it down into a dusty corner of his brain. They had bigger things to focus on.

"She loves even as she sleeps. The stories, Commander. They help. She may not hear, but she  _hears_."

Cullen's little smile came crooked, flashing dulled gold eyes onto the wraith as Cole's surge of words ended and the spirit became himself once more, almost shy. "I hope I helped."

"You always do, Cole. Thank you," he mumured in reply. Cullen reached for her limp hand, lacing his fingers between hers. All had been said and done; now they simply needed to wait and fret, attempting to balance the life of their Inquisitor against the race they were locked in, against Corypheus.

For that threat had not yet ended, but here she lay still, caught within whatever web her dreams spun her while her body sought to heal.

Sighing, he bent over her hand, reaching out to adjust the loose curls of her hair where they tumbled down the pillow.

This should not feel so much like he was little more than a lover at the deathbed of his beloved, helpless as she faded away from him, yet the feeling remained. Cullen brought her hand to his lips, willing her to open her bright eyes, and whispered his stories to her once more, just like he had the night she'd walked out of the mountain blizzard, when Haven had fallen.

\---

  
_"You swear?"_

_"I swear," he replied with all due solemnity._

_And in the prettiest, most delightful manner, she'd giggled, taking the liberty of gripping his hand. More than touch, more than sound... her eyes were feverishly bright despite the pall of fatigue that hung over her, and Cullen found himself staring._

_That had not been a sound he'd ever expected to hear from one such as the Herald, as dignified and reluctant to the yoke as she clearly was. She would never admit to such, oh no. But he could read it in her body language._

_How not to? The woman had gone from unconscious prisoner, sole survivor, suspected perpetrator of a hideous act, to the Herald of Andraste, blessed by holy touch. She'd walked out of death's reach not once, but twice. When they thought all had been lost at Haven, there she came, stumbling through the snow, half-frozen and half-blind, but still whole, for all intents and purposes._

_She was a survivor. And Cullen understood. Though it was not the exact same story, still... he understood._

_He understood being the last one standing._

_As she smiled up at him, cheeks flushed, he smiled back, bowing his head to her. Gently, oh so gently, disengaging his fingers, though a flare of heat remained, embers in his core. "Tell me another story, if you would, Lady Trevelyan."_

\---

The night's vigil ended when her fingers touched his sleeping mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'you're as bright as the sun and as calm as the moon,  
> I don't know when you'll break but it's gonna be soon,  
> (and) if my will caves in, I'll be in the same boat as you.'
> 
> \- Salt Skin, Ellie Goulding


End file.
